Are You Ready For This?
by vapourtrailreads
Summary: [MUGGLE AU] He wouldn't be just another cowboy taken before his time. Written for QLFC Round 9


A/N:

well let's just say someone's been reading THROAM and practising the ukulele a hell of a lot

also some random promotional material: go watch Social Climb by IDKHBTFM i beg you okay

**Are You Ready For This?**

"Hey, Freddie."

He stirred upon hearing George's voice, familiar and unfamiliar in how unsettled he sounded.

Fred blinked against the sterile white light of the hospital ward. George was idly twirling a drumstick in his free hand, the other snaking across the sheets and finding Fred's hand, squeezing it as if it was more to reassure himself than his twin.

"You okay?"

Fred nodded. He still felt like he had swallowed a sackful of powdered bricks, but there was no way he was going to tell George that. He would probably tell him off again. Or even worse, he might make a pun out of it. _Another one bites the dust. _Nice.

It hadn't been George's dream alone to be a musician. Fred had simply never believed that he would go into that coveted line of work, glamour and glitz and Grammys and the likes.

But they had made it. They had made it _big_. The sear of his raw throat and the burn of bass strings cutting into his fingers had become as familiar as waking up in the morning on an unfamiliar couch in an unfamiliar living room, feeling like a piece of —

Okay. That one was more recent than the bass bruises.

And not acceptable, he knew, and he sat up in bed with an effort.

"What happened?" He already knew.

George just shook his head. "I'm sorry, Fred," he whispered, hand clenching around the drumstick stopping the twirling motion and replacing it with barely masked trembling.

_Here we go again,_ Fred thought, his mind immediately scrambling to staunch his brother's guilt. "George —"

"You weren't ready," he went on, the words not malicious, but self-loathing. "I wanted to do it, and I dragged you along into this, and you weren't ready for all of it and it got you—"

He broke off, his bottom lip turning white as his teeth pushed into it, and Fred found himself slipping backward, back to the day, the place where it all began.

_XXXXXXXX_

"Hey, Freddie," George called from across the music room. He was seated behind the drum set, crashing out beats every now and then. It wasn't half bad.

Fred looked up from the homework he was supposed to be doing. He never had much luck when it came to math. Or patience. "What is it?"

George looked lost in thought. "Do you think we could do it? The talent show, I mean."

Frede watched as George started up a rhythm on the drums, one of those complicated beats that made him want to dance faster than humanly possible, a look of intense concentration etched on his face, and he knew he couldn't ever let him down, but—

Then Fred's mind wandered back to the second-hand bass under his bed, the one that he'd earned as payment for working part-time at the music shop down the street, drifted over the strings and dials and frets that he'd once only been able to admire from afar. And the music—it was intoxicating, the power of every note, every chord that sounded when he plugged the guitar into the amp and strummed, it was like drugs for his ears and soul, and he would never be able to get bored of this.

It would be a shame to leave all that there to gather dust, wouldn't it?

And anyway, he could never leave George in the lurch.

"Alright, Georgie," he grinned. "I'll go with you for the audition."

Immediately, his twin's face broke into an identical smirk. "They'll be on the edge of their seats, Fred," he said. "They won't know what hit them." He spun his drumsticks between his fingers, prompting a laugh from his twin. "You ready for this?"

And the sudden realisation hit him.

No.

He wasn't.

He couldn't ever hope to handle everything that came with being a star—interviews, parties, stress, late nights (well, he could take _that _at least), and alcohol and drugs and all the typical vices. He knew exactly how this could go.

But… he supposed that he should just take it one step at a time.

No point worrying.

"Yeah," Fred lied swiftly. "Now pack up, Mum wants us back in the house early for Ginny's birthday."

George muttered good-naturedly about how he was being too good nowadays as he packed up his things, and Fred breathed in a lungful of musty music room air, exhaling his unease in its place.

_XXXXXXXX_

"Are you ready?"

His head throbbed, George's voice swirling in the fog in his mind, his brain not really locking on to the words.

_I can't do this I can't I can't I can't_—

"Hey, are you ready for this?"

Fred shook himself, the remnant of haziness dissipating. "Yeah," he said. "I'm good."

George smirked. It was different from the cocky grin that everyone saw on the front covers of magazines—that smile was manufactured, mass-produced for the commons. This one was fiery with pride and confidence. This one was for family only.

"Let's go."

He strode out onto the stage, raising a hand in greeting as the crowd came alive, fizzing and bubbling with energy, like a cocktail spiked with things he didn't want to try. George settled in his seat on the drum riser, his own little kingdom, and he laughed inaudibly as he beamed at Fred, beckoning him to come, come here, come see this, come see them all.

Fred slung his bass over his shoulder, the weight a familiar one, and followed.

The crowd grew even more hysterical as he took his place before the microphone, girls screaming and throwing arms around another, boys with billowing bandannas and flags yelling along with them, people from all walks of life coming for the same thing.

And the wonder, the overwhelming amazement and joy of it all flooded through his system, activating energy he didn't know he had, and he plugged the bass into the amp and plucked a string. The crowd went wild, hanging on every word, hanging off their seats for him and George, and he felt drunk on the atmosphere, the music, everything.

How could he ever have had doubts about this? It was a musician's life. It was _his _life.

And he was hopelessly addicted.

_XXXXXXXX_

Voices mingled haphazardly in his mind, lights forming a psychedelic tunnel in his vision.

"Hey, Freddie!"

The voice was unfamiliar, but the prize that the girl offered was not. He raised the syringe to his wrist.

He used to think he couldn't handle it, couldn't take the heat of the music world, but that wasn't true. He could. But…

_I can't do it without this._

"Fred!"

George snatched the syringe from his hand and flung it away. He looked furious. Or maybe it was just the lighting. "What the bloody hell—why are you doing drugs?!"

_Drugs, no don't call them that, I need them—_

"Don't you know how many people have died from overdoses?" George was yelling now, but it was nothing more than a faint echo in his head.

He opened his mouth to protest, but then the world was growing hazy, the rainbow lights fading to black, and George's hands grasped at his arm but even that could not stop Fred from falling.

_XXXXXXXX_

Drugs.

When had the music stopped being that for him?

He should have been more careful, should have known that this would happen, should have paid more attention.

Fred squeezed his eyes shut, breathing unevenly.

"I'm sorry," George breathed, now holding his drumstick in both hands, his knuckles whitening as he gripped it. "I think—I mean, it was always my idea, and if you—if you don't want to do this anymore—"

"I do," Fred said.

George looked up at him, eyes wide and swimming, full of anguish and exasperation. "Freddie," he began, barely contained emotion seeping through, "you don't have to—"

"Yes, I do," Fred said. He pulled off the covers, drawing his knees up and draping his arms over them.

In that moment he decided that this day, this time, was not where he fell. He would fight through this. No failing.

He wouldn't go down like so many had before him. He wouldn't be just another cowboy taken before his time.

"It wasn't only your dream, Georgie. And it was my fault that I lost sight of it. But I can—I can see it again, you know?" He laughed, half hopeful, half disbelieving, and blinked back the heat gathering in his eyes. "Funny that it took so much for me to be—for me to be ready for this."

George's eyes were shining. "Hanging on the edge of their seats," he whispered at last, the relief in his voice mirroring Fred's.

Fred nodded, his face quivering from the uncontrollable smiling. "Yeah," he replied. "Yeah."

_I'm ready._

And this time, it wasn't a lie.

_**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**_

Team: Appleby Arrows

CHASER 1: **Another One Bites The Dust [Are you ready? Hey, are you ready for this?/Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?]**

OPTIONAL PROMPTS:

#3: [character] Fred Weasley

#4: [occupation] musician

#12: [word] drugs

Word Count: 1465


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